musings of a sometimes cranky yogi

Tag Archives: satire

I know these guys who do car maintenance, brakes, transmissions that sort of thing, but NOT oil changes. That’s what they told me anyway. Very clearly, no oil changes, they’re just not set up to do that, you know? No problem, they fixed my brakes, it was great. Did I mention they were really nice guys? Turns out they are super duper extra nice with a cherry on top, and will do oil changes for you if you’re young and hot and wearing heels and shorts. Apparently sensible Tom’s, being over 30 and of somewhat average attractiveness disqualifies you for this option. Fortunately Jiffy Lube will change your oil no matter how sensible your footwear is, and doesn’t even care a little bit if you wear slightly baggy capris and don’t have your navel pierced. Which is a huge relief for all women of simply acceptable and substandard attractiveness. Jiffy Lube will even offer you coffee if you aren’t wearing makeup or have your hair pulled up because it’s hot, dammit.

If you don’t look like this, Honey Cakes don’t waste my time

It’s not that I mind. Really. I understand. If if were up to me I would only teach young, shirtless men who were muscular, super attractive, with lots of money, because, let’s be honest, who has time for any man over 30? Honestly I can’t imagine how they have the nerve to go out, much less show up for a yoga class. But I teach for a studio that allows any man, and I mean ANY man to practice. We will let men who are over 40, 50, hell even over 60 into our classes and practice yoga. There are men who do not have clearly defined six packs allowed to go shirtless, men who have more than 20% body fat, men without defined biceps and lats, men with skinny legs, men who are overweight…. actually overweight in my yoga classes. Balding men. Out with their bare heads in public. Nobody wants to look at that. Unless you’re Sean Connery you have no business being bald. And I’m expected to be just as friendly and nice to them.

So I get it guys. It’s your little side business and you have standards. You should have standards. You don’t want just any woman to think she is worthy of being treated equally. That stuff sounds great in theory, but in practice if you’re not selective you could end up spending your valuable time and expertise with someone who thinks it’s okay to go out without makeup, without shaving/waxing/bleaching/plucking/lasering/dying every hair on her body. There are women out there that actually expect you to talk to them when they’re not wearing a super uncomfortable pushup bra and lacy thong. Don’t fall for it. A woman who won’t contort, torture and mold herself into narrow societal norms for female attractiveness is not a woman you should be associating with. Period.

Me, I have to treat men equally, I’m like Jiffy Lube. If it were up to me I would only teach shirtless firefighters. One day. When I have my own studio.

It had snowed and I couldn’t get my foot into my boot because of the fucking leg corset.

Boots

That’s how yesterday started. It finished with a $2,025 puncture in each hip and chakra workshop. Just a regular Friday.

You would think if I was going to pay someone over $4,000, pull my pants down, and let them take pictures and a video I would have walked away with something rather exciting and completely unsuitable for this family-friendly blog. I’m not completely ruling out such experiences, but that’s another post.

Snow

Yep, snow.

So. Yesterday was approximately 4years in the making. It started with our hero as a fearless badass yoga teacher, it involved:

The story is not over, but our hero through it all remained a Badass yoga teacher and also managed to complete a 500Hour Yoga Teacher Training, a Personal Training Certification, a Life Coaching Certification, a Trauma-Informed Yoga Training, Mother Fucking Firewalked with Tony Robbins, started teaching in Cook County Jail (occasionally on crutches with aforementioned fucking leg corset), got sacked 1.5 times, hired 10+ times, broke up 5x, got back together 4x, and continues to have fabulous adventures and hang with a bodacious bunch of Badasses.

Wings

This kid

Bones, for the win

Fancy clothes

These students

Actually teaching

Sidekick

I got this

THESE students

The Jail

F@cking Leg Corset

There’s more, so much more, so you’ll have to stay tuned if you want to hear about the Mustang Convertible in Arizona, Osteostrong, Several Sets of Wings, Art, Truffle fries and Hamilton.

Stage 1: The Prelude AKA Before Operation – Characterized by:

Insane optimism – I WILL return to full-time work in 1 month, tops! EVERYONE will be in AWE of my stunning recovery – there will be tears of joy, applause, balloons, puppies, because who doesn’t love puppies in a triumphant return day dream? All recoreded in slow motion video. Also, my hair will magically stop impersonating the Lion King and my skin will clear up.

Impressive consumption of bone strengthening supplement power, protein power (that only tastes mostly of chalk thats been scraped off a sidewalk), stupidly expensive (but totally worth it!) miracle powders in green containers from Whole Foods, and actual green things all combined in blender. My muscles and bones will the best muscle and bones the surgical team has EVER seen. They will so impressed they will take pictures and post them to their surgeon friends. I will be famous in the medical community for having the absolute BEST bones anyone has ever seen. There will be autograph requests and TLC will do a special on my amazingly strong bones. I will be remarkably humble and slightly embarrassed about the attention and fame.

Rekindling of old flame, not because of lame reasons like I’m worried about pretty major surgery, because I totally GOT this surgery thing, but because this time it’s gonna be so different from all those other rekindles that crashed and burned, well actually flopped, fizzled and limped off whimpering. But THIS time he’ll really SEE how wonderful I am. He will sleep in a chair at my bedside, make me protein shakes and miraculously lose all those somewhat irritating character flaws just for me. We will bond. He too will be awed about my amazing recovery and some point we will ride horses. Into the sunset. On a Motherfucking beach. That’s EXACTLY how this is going to go.

Stage 2: The DeedAKA Operation Day – How Things Actually Happened. According to Me. On Morphine.

Right. So surgery is just a tiny wee itsy bitsy bit more involved than we had planned. Something about complications… bones dissolving, lots of bleeding, extra hard hammering of metal parts that break my femur, but just in about 6 or 7 places, so no biggie. Not a problem, see impressive preparation above. I will still be triumphant. PT, OT, medical and nursing staff will be stunned by my Can-Do attitude and miraculous healing powers. Some will suspect mutant genes or that I am secretly an X-Man. Professor Charles Francis Xavier – the Patrick Steward version – will come visit and ask me to join him. I will tearfully accept. Music will play, hospital staff will applaud (in slow motion, because see above).

I am now short a couple of pints of blood and didn’t quite have the super impressive bones I had imagined. Sadly there will be no
autograph tours with orthopedic surgeons. But I am stuffed with awesome NEW bone grafts from cadaver bones, which is totally awesome because Walking Dead jokes for The. Rest. Of. My. Life. I’m certain my donor will turn out to be a famous salsa dancer so along with my upcoming remarkable recovery I will also develop a sense of rhythm and the ability to move my hips independently of my spine. My students will be in awe of my new salsa based sculpt classes and they will have to move my classes to larger venues to accommodate the huge influx of students.

I wrote this before my wonderful*, amazing*, spectacular* surgery. Today I’m writing about the wonderful*, amazing*, spectacular* post surgical recovery, but I thought I’d start with some history first.

Let me ‘splain, no it is too much, let me sum up* (*Princess Bride quote for those less nerdy/hip than the author – hip…? see what I did there? brilliant, right?)

I got my left hip replaced 7 years ago because I have hip dysplasia – yes, just like in dogs, but with less fur (thank god for leg waxing).

Shortly after someone wrote ‘I am Titanium’ about me* (*theory, but probably true).

Then life was awesome* (*my left leg had an awesome time, the rest of me intermittently so) I took up martial arts and got seriously into yoga.

I got extra attention in airport security – “Are you really that hip, because you just set off my security wand”* (*actual conversation. with myself. in my imagination)

Fast forward.

Uber cool hip starts hurting. I ignore it, hum lyrics to my song (I am Titanium). Hip hurts more, Seanna (my new Helga, I mean PT) gives me furrowed brow stare with one raised eyebrow. I go to hip doctor, who really is nowhere as hip as I am, but I don’t point that out because I am a yoga teacher and above such petty observations, mostly. Doc smiles and furrows brow (a tricky look, but he pulls it off) and orders blood work. Still humming song, I get bloodwork. Doc calls, leaves message with ‘very serious doctor voice tone’ that I have high metal levels in my blood. I wonder about the Metalica music, he says no, has nothing to do with that.

Well then. Dammit.

X-Rays, Scans, long conversations and several unhelpful Google searches later I learn that my hip replacement is not so hip after all, you could call it Tragically Hip (but you’d have to be Canadian to get that, or Google it, go ahead, I’ll wait). Metal debris around the hip has done the not so hip things like seriously damaging the muscle, connective tissue and bones all around it – like wow Scoob* (*Scooby Doo reference, don’t roll your eyes, I’m just trying to be helpful). So my pelvic bone is doing a disappearing act, but since it’s such a small and unimportant bone this is not worrisome* (*eye roll to indicate sarcasm). Also my blood is full of great things like Cobalt, which is a nice colour of blue if you like to paint, but not so great to have running through your entire bloodstream and all around all your cells and organs, like your brain, and all that. Also chromium, which I thought was a good thing, but there are different types of it, and wanna guess what type runs through my veins? (that was rhetorical, but go ahead and answer it if you want, I’ll nod wisely when you do) .

So there’s all that. But hey, not a big deal you can fix it with…. wait for it … surgery!

Surgery that will replace the replacement with a different replacement that is much cooler, and less Titanium than the original replacement (aka ALL of my current replacement) It’ll be just like my new car brakes, ceramic and plastic. Well except the plastic, because plastic on car brakes would just be stupid. Okay, forget that analogy… moving on. Look forward to the next hit song I am Ceramic with Plastic bits too. Surgery that may or may not involve bone grafts. Bone grafts from the Cadaver* Bank (*means dead, but really, really, super duper clean dead) – cue me making Walking Dead jokes for the Rest Of My Life. Surgery that may involve rebuilding my pelvis – so I will be even more hip, hard to imagine, but try (I’ll be waiting over here looking terribly cool while you imagine). Also, it may involve ‘cracking open my femur and opening it like a coffin*’ (*my surgeon’s word choice, I suggested a different metaphor/analogy/fucking word choice … like present! walnut! a goddamn door, but not a coffin, honestly dude, what are you thinking?). But basically these are the are options, that they can only decide on after I am unconscious, so I just consent to them ALL beforehand. Also the surgeon is getting a new orthopedic ‘toy’ from a ‘friend’ that he’s really excited about using. Cue awkward silence while doc looks excited and I have what I imagine is a neutral expression* (*neutral meaning eye roll continuing into blank stare that I imagine conveying understanding and empathy about ‘new toy’ that will ‘whack off’ part of my hip).

My next blog will be about better word choices for surgeons to use with conscious patients. Instead of ‘coffin’ try ‘fucking any other word in the English language’. Instead of ‘whack off’ use…. wait, whack off is kinda funny, but judge your audience and be prepared for a ‘that’s what she said’ response.

In preparation for surgery I have been consuming Russian Weight Lifter amounts of protein and amino acids, an entire tub of collagen (which has just made my furry eyebrows furrier – so awesome), bone building supplements, supplements to help the bone, muscle, and connective tissue building supplements build more muscle, bone and connective tissue, and an all natural chelation* agent (*pulls the metal out of my blood and puts it into my poop – insert your own toilet joke here). Basically this equates to a couple of chalky tasting grey coloured shakes and five fistfuls of supplements every day with occasional really awful Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation. Also they have me washing myself down daily with surgical soap, because apparently I am a very dirty girl and need to clean myself up before they slice into my skin, muscle, bone… (TMI? sorry, ignore that bit).

Also, I have had my hair roots touched up, my eyebrows tweezed, my eyelashes done and have a pedicure booked, because I’m not looking at grey roots, unruly eyebrows, wimpy lashes and chipped toenails for 6 weeks, let me tell you. Priorities people. They’re important. Considering having a hair blown out so I will not have to deal with the inevitable dreadlocks on day 3 post op, but then I thought if I don’t survive the surgery, my hair will be all wrong and no one will recognize me, so maybe not.

Surgery was Tuesday, January 17th. It sucked. It was ‘the worst case scenario’, that my doctor told me about with his ‘serious, but hey it’s still okay’ face. Aftermath to follow in next blog.

I wanted to personally(2) thank you for all
the joy(3) you have brought into my life(4)
thus far. My high school years were
especially full(5) of your special touch with
an arrow(6). As I grew and matured(7) I came to
realize the unique role(8) that you would play
in my life(9). Every step I took you were
there(10). I have certainly been blessed(11) by
your love(12). It is at this wonderful(13)time
of the year that I really feel closest to you(14).
So for all(15)you have done(16)I want to express
my gratitude(17) properly(18). With a kiss(19).

Yours with Love(20)
R

(1) You cruel naked jerk(2) and I mean up close and personal(3) and by joy I mean years and years of personal anguish(4) if you could call it that(5) full of scatological moments(6) were you aiming for my forehead?!(7) tried desperately to out run you – you grotty little louse(8) of my personal tormentor (9) of pain and turmoil(10) shooting arrows in my back(11) I didn’t know beelzebub did blessings(12) love of inflicting acute mental and physical pain (13) commercially forced sentimental pink drivel (14) hard to miss you with this sharp arrow in my throat – you foul bastard!(15) Every last agonizing…(16) each and every arrow through my head, my back…(17) I got my own cross-bow (18) so I would watch your spiteful nude butt(19) would you like to know where?(20) I would Love to snap your little “bow” in half

Be wary of Google maps when they suggest a ‘faster route’ to your swanky restaurant date with your daughters (one cooking for you, one eating with you).

Faster routes in Google maps can mean potholes the size of large bowling balls.

Potholes the size of large bowling balls can mean tire blowouts/flats in questionable parts of Chicago at night.

When changing a post pothole the size of a large bowling ball tire in questionable parts of Chicago at night be sure to turn your car lights off so the battery doesn’t get drained.

When changing a tire at night in a questionable part of Chicago saying ‘Ok Google turn on flashlight’ to your phone works better that ‘Ok Google where the fuck is the flashlight?’ – the second will have Google autocorrect ‘fuck’ to ‘phone your ex who told you to stop swearing so much’ and no good will come from THAT conversation.

When flat tires won’t come off even though you’ve removed all the goddamn lugnuts and pulled as hard as you can, you can try calling AAA, and you can try the police to help – because questionable area – but do not try this on the night the Cubs get into the World’s Series, because all of the police are at Wrigleyville and not in your questionable part of Chicago.

When flat tires won’t come off, even though you’ve done every bloody thing correctly and you’re going to be late to your reservation using ‘Very Loud Creative Swears’ whilst yanking on the motherf’ing tire will, in fact remove the flat tire and send you a few feet back with a filthy tire on your trendy, I’m going to a swanky restaurant outfit and your ass on the equally filthy roadside, but you won’t care, because pulling that motherf’cker off was extremely satisfying.

Once a goddamn flat tire is finally off the car, two motivated women can get a spare tire on in less than two minutes because Bitches Get Stuff Done and there was a swanky restaurant waiting for us.

And just in case handling a flat Like A Boss wasn’t satisfying enough, the Chef comes out to greet us personally and gives us a tour of the kitchens because besides being cool and badasses, we also love eating exceptional food.

Topic 2: Dating or Dr. Really Strangelove and How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

Never date musicians

No good has ever come from dating a musician, so when screening potential dates ask first if they can play an instrument.

Playing piano might be okay, but plays electric guitar in a band is RIGHT out – do not walk, RUN away.

Never date Scorpios

I’m certain there are some very lovely Scorpio men out there, but do not date them. Scorpio in any part of their chart, just to be safe. Scorpio Moons especially no.

No more Latino men – no, no, no, no, and Hell no. Write this down, because apparently this is a smooth spot in your brain – NO Latino men. Mexican, Peruvian, Ecuadorian, Spanish doesn’t manner, don’t do it. It will never end well.

Catholic Latino men who adore their mother. Just don’t. You can’t even. You will never ever even. You will be switched from Madonna to Whore and back so many times you will get whiplash. You will swear too much, smile too little, never cook as well, be respected too much or way too little. You will never be good enough. This is a fact, at least for you, it is a fact. For the love of your remaining sanity and shattered ego, don’t go there.

Scorpio Latino Musician? Run.

Never date Irishmen, especially if they’re poets. No good ever came from dating an Irish poet. Write that down in your journal till you remember it.

Basically dating is a bad idea. Dating will invariably lead to adding another category to the list of men you are never to date again.

You might think being a yoga teacher with long curly hair would attract suitable men to date, it does not. It does however, attract all manner of suggestions regarding flexibility and comments about anatomy.

Topic 3: Approaching Interesting Men with Beards in restaurants

DO IT. They could turn out to be a really cool band and invite you to come do yoga with them and go to their gigs

Do not date them – see above. Hang with them, do yoga with them, be generally be cool around them.

Topic 4: Retail / Food therapy or Eat, Read, Love

Buy the sweater, it will be warm and soft and gorgeous, feel like a hug and it will never judge you, tell you to smile more or to be more ladylike.

Buy the book(s), they will be interesting, expand your thinking and always there for you and will never ignore you when you need them most.

Buy infinity scarf with e.e. cumming’s poetry i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) all over it because poetry that some men write is so much better than most men.

Reread Neruda, because poetry… so much better than actual men.

Buy the fingerless gloves with that section from Wuthering Heights that you love because well-written words, so much better than…. men.

Buy dessert, eat it whenever the fuck you want, and love every moment of eating it, because life is short and often needs chocolate. Also chocolate never judges you, ever.

Movies – Go to them. Find a friend, go alone. Put butter on your popcorn, eat it all. Movies where the creeptastic man meets a very satisfying end are especially good.

Also, yoga. Do some yoga, get sweaty, fall on your ass, get up again. Repeat.

Today I had to be reminded “to take a deep breath” and also “to Just calm down”. I was – once again – letting my girly, hormonally enhanced, totally random and irrational emotions take over my Little Lady brain, thankfully there was a man there to mansplain to me that there wasn’t any need to have any of those yucky emotions, otherwise I might have made an even bigger fool of myself.

Like I said Thank God For MEN.

For men who mansplain why my feelings or thoughts are actually not things that we should spend time talking about, I mean ever. Who has time for all that silly woman thinking? Not men who understand exactly how the world works, that’s for sure.

For men who remind me that when I cuss I don’t sound like a lady, and we all know more than anything I want to be a motherfucking lady, so I am eternally grateful for those men (and enlightened women) who have spent my life reminding, and re-reminding me what is becoming behavior for a lady.

Thanks to the enlightened man in my life I have come up with a self improvement list. A list that will better help be behave in a more lady-like manner, need fewer things mansplained to me, and to not let my silly girl emotions take over my thinking.

How To Be More Lady-Like

Be eloquent and able to carry a conversation when a man lets you speak.

Don’t use profanity, overeat or drink excessively, especially in front of a man. Being a lady requires having self-control and will power, and each of these activities is an example of overindulgence, and it’s what lazy fat cows do, not ladies.

Be well-read and stay up-to-date on the current events of the world, so when a man talks you know just when to nod your head in agreement and when to furrow your brow in concern.

Stay calm, cool, and collected. Avoiding lashing out at others if you are annoyed, angry, or upset. Always remain poised, and handle the situation rationally and calmly. The men in your life will appreciate this.

A lady knows when to say no – politely, and also understands in situations with men “no can mean more beer/wine/charm/rape drugs”, or “no really means yes, so why are we wasting a man’s valuable time?”, basically no means what the man you’re with says it does.

Say please and thank you to the men in your life. While this may sound like an etiquette cliché, forgetting to say these things (even by accident) will not go unnoticed, and comes across as very rude, and we simply can’t afford to be anything but polite.

Say thank you anytime a man does you a favour, however big or small, even if it was a favour you didn’t ask for like telling you how nice your ass looks sweetheart, or great rack; it will show him that you appreciated his thoughtfulness.

Have good posture. Standing and sitting up straight are signs of a true lady. As an added bonus, having good posture is better for your back, will help strengthen up your core, and make your breasts look bigger (surgery is always a handy option should your breasts not be large enough, or your stomach too large).

When talking to a man, give him your undivided attention. It is polite, and will make for a more stimulating conversation for you to nod and listen to.

Never interrupt or talk over a man. This will place the man in the uncomfortable position of having to mansplain something to you yet again.

Be charming. A true lady doesn’t just sit there quietly and let the world pass by. Engage with men, listen politely to their stimulating conversations, and be a subtle flirt.

If you don’t know how to be charming, start off by smiling more at men when you listen to them, and compliment them more. Make your compliments personal; for example, instead of simply thanking a man for mansplaining a difficult topic to you, like how stupid and irritating your Little Lady brain thoughts are, also tell him that he has a dizzying intellect, and huge hands.

Dress elegantly. This means dressing appropriately for the occasion, your body type, and your age. Use your best judgment to determine what clothes are most appropriate for you.

Don’t try to squeeze into clothes that don’t fit you, that’s slutty and “asking for it” and you’ll deserve what you get.

Consider a simple dress over pants. While there’s nothing wrong with wearing pants, dresses and skirts bring out your femininity and show off your curves better than pants do, and remember we are here to entertain men.

Highlight your cleavage if you have large breasts, get surgery if you do not, but don’t be slutty, a lady knows the difference between attractively arranging herself to please a man, and being a cock tease.

Choose trousers over jeans when possible. When you do wear jeans, be sure that they are not torn or otherwise destroyed, unless that is something your man enjoys. Always think first what you man would like and dress accordingly.

Don’t wear sweatpants or baggy t-shirts unless you are at the gym or exercising, and even then consider if you have the body type that men like to see at the gym when they are working out. Wearing these around all day suggests that you pay very little attention to your physical appearance. Tight yoga pants can be the exception, but only if a man thinks your ass looks great in them.

When in doubt about how to act, dress, speak, or think check with a man, who will give you all the guidance you need to be a proper lady.